


Flights of Fancy

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Cabin Pressure, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Humor, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22482514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Small snippet of TMA/Cabin Pressure crossover.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Martin Crieff/Douglas Richardson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Flights of Fancy

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a full fic but more of a snapshot - I really love this idea in concept but I think fic format is wrong for it, so I'll be tackling it again in a script format in a while, I think.

“Fitton to LAX,” Douglas said, leaning back in the passenger seat, glancing in the mirror. Martin was looking attentively at Douglas and Carolyn, but Arthur was fast asleep, and leaning heavily on Martin’s shoulder. Martin was trying desperately to ignore it, which was difficult, because Arthur was nearly twice Martin’s size, and his head was very precariously balanced on the needle point of Martin’s bony shoulder.

“And who— Who are we flying?” Martin asked, as Arthur grumbled something about rabbit sandwiches.

“An old school friend of Douglas’,” Carolyn said immediately.

“Elias Bouchard,” Douglas said, “was not my _friend_.”

“What was he, then?” Carolyn asked, apparently in very high spirits, which was only to be expected, when she thought she might find something out about Douglas.

“My dealer,” Douglas said, and Martin let out the choked, strangled noise Douglas was hoping for. Douglas beamed at him in the mirror as Martin tried to lean forward, meaning that Arthur’s head fell down between Martin’s back and the car seat, and Martin groaned.

“_Arthur!”_

Arthur shot up, blinking rapidly. “S’not _my_ business,” he said. “I would never ever, not to _rabbits_, I mean—”

“Yes, yes, Arthur, terribly tough meat, very bad for sandwiches,” Douglas said.

“Dealer of _what_?” Martin demanded, his eyes as wide as dinnerplates, his chin touching the back of Carolyn’s chair, and Carolyn laughed as she pulled in toward the airfield.

“Oh, little of everything, at the time – this was during my first year of medical school.

“Do you mean your last year of medical school, Douglas?” Arthur piped up, helpfully.

Douglas frowned as Carolyn and Martin both laughed, and said, mildly, “Yes, Arthur, that is what I mean. Marijuana, mostly, Martin.”

“Do you— But you wouldn’t, um, _now_…?”

“No, Martin, I wouldn’t _now_,” Douglas said. “I also wouldn’t drink a bottle of absinthe before a night on the town these days. Or before a morning exam.”

“That’s so— that’s so _bad!”_ Martin said, in nearly a whisper.

Douglas opened his mouth, then closed it. “Yes, Martin,” he said, indulgently, making eye contact with him in the mirror. “I was terribly naughty.”

Martin’s cheeks were very red as he got out of the car, rushing across to the MJN offices, which were at least _proper_ buildings, now, and Douglas thought initially that he was running out of sheer indignation that Douglas might have done drugs in university, but then he saw the rather sleek little DB4 pulled in before it.

“I hate it when they’re early,” Carolyn muttered.

“I think we’re late actually, Mum,” Arthur said, and Douglas elected to step out of the car before she snapped at him to be quiet, moving smoothly across the tarmac. He grabbed Martin by the collar of his uniform to keep him from leaning and all but shoving his freckled head into the DB4’s window. Although he released a shuddery noise, he did stand up straight, and he stood in line with Douglas as the DB4’s passenger door opened.

The man was…

“Oh, God,” Martin whispered, and Douglas squeezed his shoulder very tightly to keep him from going on.

“Good morning,” said the man with scars all over his face, not looking at Martin or Douglas as he opened the back door, letting out a very tall, plump man. They were both in their thirties, Douglas would guess, although the thin one looked very old for his age, his hair streaked with tarnished grey, bags under his eyes, round scars dotting his face and his bared forearms, his one hand melted with burns.

“Hi there,” said the big man as he passed the smaller one a cane from the backseat, pushing the door closed. “I’m Martin Blackwood,” Douglas patted Martin’s shoulder as he felt him stiffen, “and this is Jonathan Sims.”

“Are you going to get _out_ of the car, Elias?” Jonathan Sims asked, archly.

“You opened the door for Martin,” came the muffled reply from the driver’s seat.

“I _like_ Martin,” was the retort.

“I’ll get it, shall I?” Douglas asked, but _Captain_ Martin – oh dear, they really would have to sort that out, wouldn’t they? – made his way to the door of the DB4 and opened it, stepping back to allow the driver to get out.

Elias Bouchard had aged _well_. He was tall, lean, muscular, as Douglas remembered, but although there was a little silver at his temples, his face was remarkably devoid of the laughter lines Douglas would have expected.

“_Elias_,” he said. “Good to see you again.”

“Douglas,” said Elias. Voice was a bit different too – not just lower, but… a bit more cultured, Douglas supposed, the vowels more neatly clipped.

“You two know each other?” demanded Jonathan, immediately taking a step toward Douglas and peering up at him, his dark gaze rather uncomfortably intense. “But you aren’t—”

“Let’s not be paranoid, Jonathan,” Elias said pleasantly. “Douglas and I knew one another at Oxford.”

Jonathan’s head… _tilted_. His eyes defocused just slightly, gazing intently on something in the middle distance between he and Douglas, and Douglas had to restrain himself from stepping back, the expression and tight body language were so disconcerting. Martin – the big Martin, although Douglas knew he wouldn’t get away with thinking _that_ for long – cleared his throat.

“Um, Jon,” he said. “Jon.”

When this gentle approach didn’t work, Martin stepped forward, looking slightly embarrassed, and clapped Jonathan on the shoulder, squeezing.

Jonathan came back to it all at once, glancing back at him, and then to Douglas when Martin’s gaze went to him.

“Don’t worry,” Douglas said. “I have to do that to mine sometimes as well.”

Big Martin blushed furiously, his cheeks reddening, but his expression remained curiously blank.

“So, Elias,” Douglas said. “Head of the _Magnus Institute,_ is it?”

“Yes,” Elias said crisply, shutting his car door and moving to the boot. “Jonathan is my Head Archivist; Martin is one of our archival assistants. Jonathan, Martin, this is First Officer Douglas Richardson, whom I knew my first year at university, and Captain Martin Crieff, of MJN Air.”

“Er, yes,” Martin said. “Er, yes, yes, that is, I am the— I _am_ the captain, yes.”

“He needs the reminder at times,” Douglas said, when the archivists gave him a funny look. “And here is Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, our proprietor, and her son, Arthur.”

“_Hello!”_ Arthur said, giving the three archivists an enthusiastic wave.

“Hello, Arthur,” Elias said mildly. “Would you be so kind as to assist me with our luggage?”

“’Course!” Arthur said.


End file.
